


Roughly Ripped Apart

by thewordsIcouldntkeep



Category: The 1975 (Band)
Genre: F/M, Sex, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-18
Updated: 2015-08-18
Packaged: 2018-04-15 10:49:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4603920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewordsIcouldntkeep/pseuds/thewordsIcouldntkeep
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Basically, George and a girl go at it (eventually), and it's everything he didn't realize he needed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Roughly Ripped Apart

It was their last show for a while; they just had to get through tomorrow night, and then they could go back home for Christmas break before heading out to the Pacific for the remaining 5 weeks. They’d been touring way too long, and while they loved it and they knew how fortunate they were to be living their dream and tried not to take anything for granted, they were all knackered and they were gonna need this break, badly. But for now, they just had to get through these last few nights in the States.

They arrived in town the evening before the gig and settled into their hotel rooms, grabbed dinner, and made their plans for the night. Adam and Ross were going to Skype with their girlfriends who were waiting up back home, maybe play video games, just generally lay low. John was going to stick close to Ross, per usual, maybe read or practice stuff for the other bands he worked with. It was a given that George was going out – George always went out, wherever they were; he had to get “the vibes”, as he called it, had to see the lay of the land, get a feel for the people, get an idea of what kind of love they could expect at the gig. Matty, as much as he craved the claustrophobic suffocation of being around people, extrovert that he was, had had a recent ‘episode’ (as they were all referring to it) and, as much as he wanted (some would say ‘needed’) to be with George at almost all times, allowed himself to be convinced (by George, of course) to stay in, and read, and write in his journal, or jerk off, or do fuck-all, whatever, as long as it was restful. They just had the one more gig, and while it wasn’t a headliner, they needed him in top form. They wanted to leave America on the highest of notes, have the fanbase there craving them in their absence like a drug. Matty’s well-being, they all knew, was the cornerstone of everything.

So, at George’s insistence and with George getting him all settled in, Matty stayed in his hotel suite, wrapped like a burrito in the duvet on the sofa, surrounded by his phone, his laptop, food, drinks, things to watch, things to play, things to smoke, while George headed out to the pub he was told by the front desk was “low key” and “chill”, just the atmosphere he craved after seeing how rabid these fans could be. He was told it was about a mile down the road, so he opted to walk it, grateful for the crisp but not freezing Florida winter air – so much better-smelling than a bus full of men - and for the opportunity to both stretch his legs, cramped after being in his bunk, and blaze a blunt the whole way; leisurely, not rushed. George hoped this place was as mellow as he’d been told: he just wanted a goddamn beer in a place with real people and no one trying to get a piece of him. Going out without Matty was an easier way to ensure that. As much as he missed his best mate, even when they were apart just briefly, every now and again getting off the rails of the crazy train that was the Matty Express was good for George’s sanity.

George saw her immediately as soon as he stepped inside the pub, trailing the last of his smoke behind him. She was standing at the bar, legs for days and hair to match. In profile, she was sharp-nosed, strong-jawed, and full-lipped. He thought maybe her lashes were a mile long and possibly even real but it was always hard to tell with girls these days, even close up. All George knew was he needed to get a better look. At all of her. Feel her energy, see if the “don’t-fuck-with-me” vibe he was getting all the way over here was real or just a front she put on while waiting for drinks. And smell her. He definitely needed to know what she smelled like.

“Jesus, who do I have to blow around here for some tequila?”, he heard her say to no one in particular as he approached. He was directly behind her and was about to say, “me” as a stupid and too-easy way in, but the guy to her right beat him to it. And what a near-miss _that_ was. She turned to him with the most exasperated glare, gave him the quick up-and-down and snarked, “Not a chance, dude. Good luck with that, though.” George was glad he kept his mouth shut; that kind of blatant American forwardness wasn’t his style, anyway - he preferred a more subtle approach. He had a feeling it might take a bold move to get her to notice him, though; something he wasn’t quite used to, but she didn’t seem to be trolling that night, so she wasn’t paying anyone any mind. George intended to change that.

She rolled her eyes away from her neighbor and turned her attention back to the bartenders who were still - inexplicably, in George’s opinion - ignoring her. She was far and away the sexiest girl there, he thought. She had her cash out and everything; hard for a bartender to miss. Even when not-a-chance guy was brought his beer, took his cue and left, she was passed over. George took up residence in his place and, as usual, because of his striking stature and appearance, he was immediately waited on by the female barkeep.

“What can I getcha?”, she asked in an exaggerated Southern drawl, leaning forward in her low-cut tie-dyed tshirt for maximum cleavage effect. George cringed inwardly. He could feel the heat from the death rays coming out of the girl’s eyes as she turned her head toward him in disbelief. “Infuckingcredible”, he heard her say, not quite under her breath. But he was raised with proper manners, and he certainly wasn’t going to take someone’s place in line, irrespective of whether he wanted in between their legs.

“Uh, she was here first, thanks”, he said, nodding toward the girl. She was back to looking straight ahead, drumming her fingers on the bar. “Well, sure,” said the bartender, directing her attention toward the girl, “what do you want then, darlin’?”

“Bottle of Patron, three shot glasses, please”, she said quickly. “And training wheels.”

“No problem, sugar. And, now, what about you, big fella?”, the bartender said, aiming her eyes – and tits - back at George. He winced a little at that. He _hated_ that. What did people think? That he didn’t know he was huge? Why did people have to call attention to it all the time? Couldn’t he just once go about his day without someone commenting on his being a “gentle giant” or a “freak” or, lately, he’d heard, even “Groot”? Ok, so yeah, he was tall, sure, and from what people said he guessed he was built, too, but the way people talked about him made him feel like Lennie from ‘Of Mice and Men’ or that abominable snowman from the old Bugs Bunny cartoons. Like, because he was big, he was somehow simple, or slow, or worse, stupid. People contrasted him with Matty all the time, and Matty, with his lithe, tiny body, was also considered brilliant, and clever, and quick – and Matty absolutely _was_ all those things. So did that mean that with George being his polar opposite physically, people thought he was his opposite mentally, too? Like he was lucky to have Matty around to articulate for him because he wasn’t smart enough to fend for himself?

George shook himself out of his introspective haze (' _way too deep just for some bartender to have called you "big fella’" G, Jesus, get a grip on yourself'_ ), cleared his throat, and said, “just a Stella, thanks”.

The bartender grinned as she turned away to gather their drink orders. George, relieved to have the attention off of him again, turned to the girl slightly and, feeling this might be his only way in and desperate to have any interaction with her, remarked, “A whole bottle and just three shot glasses, eh? Special occasion, or…?”

“Rough day at work”, she replied, cutting him off, her mouth a flat line. She was staring straight ahead, at the bottles lined up in front of the mirror behind the bar. George took in her dark brown wavy hair, her lips the color of berries, all contrasting with the backdrop of her pale skin. He tried not to let his gaze linger too long on the way her powder blue sweater was hugging her tits in all the right places. Instead and because she wasn’t paying attention, George tried to memorize her face, so he allowed himself to stare; he indulged himself in the planes of her cheekbones, the slope of her throat. He decided her mouth was his favorite feature. His brain flicked a quick strobelit image of him fucking her face, his hands fisted in her hair, and he blinked it away hard and tried to ignore the flutter it had caused deep in his belly. Being this close to her was jumbling George’s thoughts. What he did know with clarity was that he wanted to bite those lips, though, taste them. She was absolutely gorgeous, he thought; beautiful in the way that made people forget what they were going to say when they tried to speak to her. George tried to catch her eye in the mirror but her gaze was unfocused, far away.

“Oh. Sorry to hear that”, he said. “Work is…?”

“Something people do to earn money”, she said drily, still staring off at nothing. His mouth turned up at the corners at that (‘ _clever_ ’, he thought, ‘ _quick. Like Matty’_ ). And with that observation he immediately felt a closeness with her, even though everything about her demeanor at the moment was screaming for distance. So it came as a surprise to him when she actually did glance his way and say, “Sorry, that was rude, and I’m typically…not”. She paused for a moment, as if debating whether to continue, then went on, “I’m a nurse, actually – usually a nice one”. She turned to fully face him then, and he saw that her dark lashes were indeed real, framing the most gorgeous set of emerald-green eyes he’d ever seen. Emerald eyes that held a depth of resigned sadness in them right then that he couldn’t reach. She continued, eyes fixed on his, willing him to understand, “I work in intensive care, and a rough day is…really rough”.

George nodded, having family and friends in the healthcare field; he had a mild understanding of what she meant from having heard the odd story here and there. He reckoned the kind of rough day she was talking about wasn’t because of running around busy on her feet for outrageously long hours, getting chewed out by power-tripping doctors, dealing with demanding or panicked or grief-stricken family members, hospital politics, etc. – even though he knew all of that constituted the job and was indeed tough work. No, the kind of rough day that lay hidden in her eyes was of the ‘despite all of our best efforts, we lost a patient’ variety. The kind of rough day that very few people can handle and still wake up relatively sane the next morning. The kind of rough day that, try as they might to explain it to family and friends, only fellow colleagues in the trenches could truly understand.

“The kind of rough day that requires a bottle of Patron and just three shot glasses”, George said. “Gotcha”.

She gave him a wry smile and nodded. Just then, Big-titted Southern Belle brought them their drinks. “On me”, George said quickly, before the girl could give the bartender her cash.

She glanced at him in surprise and said, “Oh, uh…you didn’t have to do that. But on behalf of my friends and me, thank you.” She rubbed his forearm for a second as she said it ( _‘nurse_ ’, he thought briefly, _‘naturally touchy-feely’_ ), and George instantaneously felt a rush of heat, like the imprint of her hand radiated through his leather jacket, his long-sleeved shirt underneath it, down onto his skin, passing through his muscle layer and into his very bones, warming him from the inside out. He smiled sheepishly and said, “Oh, it’s no problem. Thanks for… everything you guys do.” It was cliché and not extraordinary enough and not nearly what he wanted to express to her, and maybe he really _did_ need Matty after all to find his words for him… But whatever, it was done; he had said it, and bought her a drink like anyone else would do, he wasn’t original, he wasn’t special, he didn’t stand out to her. But she smiled regardless. She smiled at him and it reached her eyes for a second, and that - that was worth it.

George realized that a flush was starting to blossom from his chest up his neck and into his cheeks. It had started when she looked at him the first time. He wanted her to look at him always, even if it meant his ridiculously turning pink. He wondered if it showed. Probably not in the low light of the pub, but right then, he didn’t even care. His capillaries could incriminate him all they wanted for the rest of time, if only she would train her eyes back on him.

But the moment was over. As she grabbed her bottle, the salt shaker, the lime wedges, and the shot glasses, she quipped, “Well, enjoy your Stella, Big Fella”. George’s smile faded. She didn’t notice, wasn’t looking at him. “Name’s George”, he said, raising his bottle to her. “How nice”, she said, closed off to him once more. “Take it easy. And, really, thanks again”. And with that, she turned and walked to the back of the pub to join her friends in a booth.

As she strode purposefully away on legs he couldn’t help but stare at, George caught her scent in her wake and breathed deep. Black cherries and vanilla, and… was…was that fucking _nutmeg_?, he wondered with a slight shake of his head. Whatever it was, he wanted more of it, of all of it. She smelled fucking edible (‘ _like girl cobbler’_ , he smirked to himself) and he wanted to put his mouth on all of her skin and see if she tasted like that… everywhere. She was clearly in no mood to be chatted up, though. All George knew was that he was pretty much smitten: she had those eyes, and those legs, and those lips, and even though they’d only exchanged maybe a dozen words, he wanted to hear her talk, hear her ideas about anything and everything, just to have her voice fill up the fuzzy buzzing spaces in his head. He wanted to know what her laugh was like, wanted to be the one to make her make that sound. He wanted to her make other sounds for him, too. And, after hearing about what she did for a living (so different from his own) and what she must’ve been dealing with inside herself, he wanted to comfort her, soothe her, _relieve_ her somehow. In whatever incarnation that took.

George had a sudden burning craving to take _care_ of her, which was odd for him. Sure, he was a loyal and good mate and a great sidekick and fun for a laugh and all that, but when it came to girls, especially when they were on tour, he was quite literally “in and out”, and that’s the way he liked it. Ever since it had ended with his last serious girlfriend he had followed a simple formula: No mess, no phone numbers, no having anyone pining for the other once it was over, and he specifically chose girls he could tell were after the same thing. A quick fuck, the chance to say they bedded “the drummer from The 1975” (he wondered if some of them even bothered to remember his name; God knew theirs never stuck with him), a brief “thanks for a good time” kiss at the bus or hotel room door, and that was it. Why he was fixated on this girl he had barely even actually met who 100% did not fit that mold was beyond him. ‘ _Calm down, G,_ ’ he thought to himself. ‘ _Plenty of other girls here; this one’s clearly not into it, get her out of your head._ ’ But as he took his place up against the wall of the pub opposite the bar and tipped his beer bottle to his lips, he saw her out of the corner of his eye, in a booth with her friends setting up shots, and he knew he was just going to watch her all night, other girls be damned.

********

She needed to get out of this mood. She reminded herself that she knew what she was getting into when she decided on this career: she knew there would be days like this, days when you give everything you have to give and then some, and everyone around you is doing the same, desperate to save a life, only to have your efforts be in vain. Sometimes the battle is too uphill, the forces to overcome too great. That was the case with her patient today, D. D was just too sick, and her body decided it just couldn’t take it anymore, despite what her spirit might have wanted.

They had coded her for five hours, off and on. They had had to use an intravenous drip to keep her heart pumping, and the second it ran dry, she would flatline and they would start compressions all over again. Finally, blessedly, her fiancé and mother had asked them to stop and just let D go. It was tremendously, heartbreakingly sad. She had known this patient well, had taken care of her many times in the last two years, had seen her chronic illness progress. Everyone knew D was sick and would continue to decline as years went on, but no one estimated that 33 would be the last birthday she’d see.

The girl looked up at her two friends and coworkers sitting across from her in the booth, and it was clear they all shared the same reverie: they were replaying the moments of the day, seeing everything in that odd slow-motion that all crises give rise to. The girl always marveled at this capacity of the human body, to pinpoint in exacting detail tiny random things surrounding fight-or-flight events: the precise color of the pen she’d left on the table, the sun highlighting the dust particles in its beam through the window, the squeak of the resident’s shoes as he moved frantically around the bed, calling out orders. Everything running at a frenetic pace, but the senses widened to take in all the specifics, to be saved for later, spun round and round in the brain to be spit out at inopportune moments and analyzed anew. The girl knew she and her friends were all experiencing their own recall and doing the control-freak thing all nurses do: wondering what they might have missed, what they should have done differently, how they could have changed the outcome, somehow; as if they could magically manipulate the inevitable. It was maddening and a spiral they sometimes had to be forced out of. Thus, the three friends found themselves at a pub on the opposite side of town a few hours after they had left work, using liquor to self-medicate away the haunting remnants of the day.

“To D”, she said, raising her shot glass to her friends. “To D”, they replied, and they each downed their shot. The girl quickly poured another round; the sooner she could soften the sharp horrors pricking her brain, the better. The three of them were utterly exhausted but still wired from all the adrenaline. She was going to have a hard time sleeping tonight if she didn’t get a decent buzz going. Thankfully, shifts like this didn’t happen often, but so far tequila was the only thing she’d found that could calm her down and help her brain shut out all the guilt-shouting her inner voice would get up to. Well, tequila and one other thing, but she’d need a partner for that, and she wasn’t sure she was up to schooling someone new on what she needed from them in order to get out of her own head. She was lucky, she supposed; she was often able to leave her job at the door. But not tonight. Losing this particular patient hurt her deep in her heart. She sighed and drank another. She could tell the liquor was working because it didn’t burn this time going down.

She was sucking on her lime wedge when her eyes caught a flurry of movement over by the far wall. It was that guy – _George_ , she recalled, _with the accent_ – who had bought them their drinks. Some girl seemed very excited to see him, judging by her jumping up and down a few times and clamping her hands over her mouth. She watched from afar as he leaned down to hug her, the girl clinging to his leather jacket as if she were drowning and he was wearing a lifevest. When they pulled apart, she could see the girl’s eyes were shiny, as if welling with tears, but she had the hugest smile on her face. They exchanged a few words and George took her phone from her hand and took a selfie of the two of them. She hugged him again, grabbed her phone, and backed away, giggling and mouthing the words “thank you thank you thank you” over and over again. All in all, it was a cute exchange, the girl thought. She admired the way George handled that graciously, didn’t look all put-upon or annoyed, seemed sincerely flattered that someone appreciated him. _‘I could appreciate him’_ , she mused, and startled at the thought. After the day she’d had, she didn’t think she was capable of lust, but apparently her brain had other plans. She was suddenly spellbound, and couldn’t drag her gaze away from him.

The girl let eyes wander up and down George’s long, muscular body as he took off his leather jacket and laid it across the back of a chair. Her friends had started talking and were trying to draw her back into the conversation, but it was no use. “Listen, ladies, I’m just… I’m not in the mood to rehash today, ok?”, she said. They nodded, understanding. “Sorry”, her blonde friend said, “we can talk about anything and everything else; promise.” The girl replied, “Yeah, but we’re going to, though. It always inevitably ends up back to work, right? And normally that’s fine, it’s just… tonight… I just…” She let her words fail her as she flapped her hands uselessly around her face. Her other friend said, “I know. We get it. She was your patient; you’ve been hit harder by it, naturally.” She paused to drink, then went on, “Know what you need? You, my dear, need an eraser. A distraction. Something - or some _one_ \- to get your mind off of things. We all could use one, honestly. Let’s find them, yeah?”

The girl grinned; her friend was right. She just needed something – anything – to take her out of her depressing cerebral tailspin. “Alright”, she said, “let’s do it”.

Her blonde friend set up another round. “To distractions”, she said, raising her glass.

“To distractions”, the girl and her other friend replied. They clinked glasses and downed their drinks. The girl was starting to feel pleasantly pliable, ready for… whatever. She looked back over to where George was standing and found him looking back at her. He started a little, and looked hurriedly down to the floor, having been caught. He slowly tilted his head back up and met her eyes again across the room, eyes which hadn’t left him for a second. He raised his bottle toward her, nodded, and smiled before taking a swig. She slowly smiled back at him, a blush coming over her cheeks, possibly from the tequila, but not likely. She was pretty sure she had found what she needed. Satisfied, she told her friends she’d be back later and she walked back to the bar to buy that boy another beer.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic, and there is more to come within this story - I'll follow up with it as soon as I can; there WILL be fucking, I promise, and it'll get a bit rough.  
> I have others in the works, too. Hopefully you like this one alright. Feedback is appreciated!


End file.
